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smolvenger · 6 months ago

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The Baronet Seeks A Wife, Chapter One.

A Crimson Peak Multi-Part Fanfiction.

Thomas Sharpe x fem! Reader Arranged Marriage AU.

Summary: England in the 1890s. When your spirited sister, Charlotte, defies your family by running away from her arranged engagement to Sir Thomas Sharpe, you are the one who must keep your family from scandal and ruin...by taking her place as the baronet's bride.

Word Count: >7K words. You may want tea and scones as a repast as you read this.

Warnings: Angst, some hurt/comfort, and fluff at the end. I attempt to convey the period as accurately as I can bc if you don't like it or find it interesting why write it. Period accurate attitudes of gender and social class. Mentions and discussions of sex, but no smut (yet...let me just say...after Bridgerton season 3 episode four...I have *ideas* heheheheh). Brief mention of childbirth. The fear of domestic violence is mentioned, but not portrayed. Grammar and spelling mistakes. If I miss something and you see something that could be triggering that I didn't mention, then it is your responsibility to please please please tell me. I will take full accountability for how I portray marginalized groups and sensitive subject matter and make sure to better my writing and make sure affected parties are protected.

A03//My Ko-Fi//My Etsy Shop//Masterlist//Wattpad

Taglist: @asgards-princess-of-mischief @jennyggggrrr @five-miles-over @fictive-sl0th @ladycamillewrites @villainousshakespeare @holdmytesseract @eleniblue @twhxhck @lokisgoodgirl @lovelysizzlingbluebird @raqnarokr @holymultiplefandomsbatman @michelleleewise @wolfsmom1 @cheekyscamp @mochie85 @fandxmslxt69 @skittslackoffilter @mischief2sarawr @jijilaufeyson @steasstuff @anukulee @kimi01985 @goblingirlsarah @foxherder @giona45-5 @goddessgirl43

London, 1898.

“I won’t marry him!” your sister cried.

You have seen this scene plenty of times. You could recount it like a play production you had seen too much. You were sitting in the parlor, trying to read a book and rest your feet. But your mother and your older sister, Lottie, were on each other’s last nerves.

‘Lottie, you have to!” your mother insisted.

You found you couldn’t focus on the words. You only sat there in stillness, watching in silence. A maid walked by the door, her eyes flicking over to the scene, but then she kept walking down the hallway.

Your mother pressed a hand to her forehead and sighed as if in pain.

Your older sister, Charlotte, was curling her fists on her side. The red dress, the new one father ordered for her at the shop, only made her seem angrier. She was literally burning with the fire of fury.

Mama let out a huff. Then she glared at Charlotte, her arms akimbo.

“Listen to me. Right. Now.” your mother began.

You felt bad for your mother. There was a lot on her mind. To have both daughters out in society at one time. They agreed it wasn’t fair for one daughter to go about having fun when the other couldn’t. Charlotte was older, so she was more experienced in being out in society. She made her debut it seemed ages ago. You recalled your own debut. You had your turn to wear white and curtsy before the queen before she dismissed you for the next girl. You were already beaming with excitement. Ready to enter the glittering, grown-up world of the London social season. Prepared to dine and dance in pretty dresses every April until August.

But every year, it seemed the bags under Charlotte’s eyes increased. Now years had passed since then. And mam still had two daughters who were still out. And unmarried.

Charlotte dreaded going from your country home to London for the warmer months.She hated the constant balls, parties, meals, picnics. She at least liked riding her horse in Hyde Park but loathed she couldn’t go faster. She would sneak out to smoke cigars. Bugs and reptiles fascinated her more than gossip. She scribbled down notes. She turned prickly if any man asked for a dance. She spoke boldly and even swore. She enjoyed the horse races and polo games and sports, but the art of feminine flirting was beyond her.

But your parents had plenty of money and two daughters. But only so much money could support so many seasons. And as the eldest, the pressure was on Charlotte. There was the occasional brave soul who proposed marriage to her. Only to face the inevitable, flat rejection.

So Mama and Papa took matters into their own hands.

Mama met enough people who networked her to cross paths with a single baronet. They porposed a marriage between him and Charlotte, to which he agreed. Your sister was engaged after a mere three meetings with the fellow. Not that you had a chance to meet him either. So no rejection. No proposal. A ring on Lottie’s finger forcibly placed on her like a child force-fed turnips to her mouth.

“Lottie, do you know how much that dress costs? The very one on your back? Every season, your father and I make sure you and your sister have new gowns so you may be presentable in public. That is what they demand- that eligible ladies always dress in fresh new clothes. So any gentleman will not scoff at you wearing yesterday’s rag. You may not like it- but this is for your future. For your family’s future. May I remind you- You are the eldest. You must make a good match not only for your sake- but your sister’s future. If you marry well-then she will be set up to succeed. There are plenty of decent men with more than enough money to make you comfortable here. Every year, they ask to dance with you. Every year, at least one proposes. And every year, you say no. ”

Charlotte huffed, folding her arms.

‘I didn’t want to marry them. Any of them. I wouldn’t make them happy and they wound’t make me happy at all.”

Your mother glared down.

“You have had more than enough chances to secure yourself forever. Do you want to live at the mercy of your father’s charity all of your days? If he cut you off this minute and threw you out of the house, you would have nowhere to go, and no way to survive. Lottie, do you realize how many seasons you have had? Do you realize how much we must pay more and more for you both to be presentable when you are out? Do you realize how much this is costing us and yourself?” she scolded.

She caught her breath. Charlotte was breathing hard, and you could see glimmers of tears in her eyes. Mama stepped closer.

“Charlotte…you’re no figure of pity. Not yet. You have had plenty of chances- they still call you the Wild Rose of London. Your face won over dukes, earls-so many girls would have loved to be in your shoes!” she said softly.

Mama was right. Charlotte was considered the beauty of the family. When she made her debut, heads turned to look at her. Everyone, you included, thought she would make a match easily. After all, your father was in charge of a great business that made a lot of money. You were now part of the upper crust. So a pretty face, a decent family reptutation and a sizable dowry with her bold, vivacious character would have won someone’s heart. And in a way they did. The first man who proposed to Charlotte you thought was going to be like shooting a sitting duck.

Even though “spinsterhood” did nothing to dampen your sister’s face,you were all proven wrong. Very, very wrong.

Lottie slouched as much as she could in her gown and frowned. A habit she never abandoned as a child.

“Your father had to take action. You will be a part of the esteemed Sharpe baronacy and he will reap the monetary benefits. He is a nice man, pleasant, charming, and he will take care of-”

“So am I nothing more than a thing you auction off at a bazaar? Not a person with a heart? With feelings?” Lottie combated.

“We were going to be driven at this rate to ill repute, and financial ruin all because you wouldn’t marry!” your mother argued.

“Then why not let me wear an old dress?” Lottie shot back. “Or have me not do a season! Let me remain a spinster and paddle my own canoe!”

“Sir Sharpe will take care of you. He promised it!” Mama assured.

“Being stuffy old Lady Sharpe and wasting my life in balls and parties is going to drive me to insanity! An arranged marriage- mama, it’s practically medieval!” Lottie shouted.

Your mother folded her hands.

“Your father has set it in stone. There is no point in this conversation. You are going to marry Sir Thomas Sharpe, and that is final!”

Your sister jumped up. She stormed off, slamming the door shut childishly as she huffed off to her room.

Your mother turned to you. You sat in your own blue tea gown, not expecting company. For a night of no events in the London season was a special treat. All of the picnics, lunch parties, park trips, operas, theatre, and balls were fun- but back to back, it was exhausting. But hearing your mother and sister yell at each other was ten times worse than the exhaustion.

You stood up.

“Am I….a bad mother?” she asked. You saw tears in her eyes too.

You put a hand on her shoulder, a fine, matronly gown of dark green brocade. You offered her a handkerchief.

“I only think you are a desperate mother put into a difficult situation.”

“She won’t listen to me. Much less your father…she only listens to you anymore. I hate we must do this…and I hate myself,” she sniffled.

You patted her shoulder.

“Mama, let me speak with her. Let me help patch things up. Make her happy,” you offered.

She nodded. You exited the library, walking up the stairs to Lottie’s bedroom. The odd servant paused in their dusting to curtsy at you. You wold give them a nod and a smile, before you continued. Walking past vases of daffodils and over velvet rugs, you found the door locked shut. Crying coming from inside.

You knocked on the door.

“Go away, papa!” she fussed.

“Lottie, it’s not papa, it’s me!” you assured her.

Your sister went over and opened the door, letting you in and shutting it after you entered. With it’s wine red wallpaper, the place seemed to be dark as the sun was dipping outside. Her desk empty of any papers and her hat set on top. Her colllections of newspapers piled on one chair near her parasol. The drawer where she hid her cigars was kept with a lock and a key she dared not tell even you.

“Lottie…I’m so sorry you have to do this, and how miserable it makes you…it sounds like a nightmare,” you admitted.

You could see tears streaming down her face.

“Do you remember when I was eleven and asked mama and papa for a pet snake? They know how much I love snakes- they’d give me little toy snakes. I wanted a real one. I’d call her Cleopatra for the irony of it. But they said no. Every year I asked and they kept saying no.would always say no. They try….but they can’t love me, or understand me. And I keep trying to please them…and I keep failing and now…they’re throwing…”

She sat on the bed and began to cry. And you hugged her.

“Here….here…” you said. “My poor girl, my poor Lottie!” you cooed.

“I want to go places. Have adventures and jolly, capital times. I want to run, and explore and see things! Not be stuffy old Lady Sharpe in some stupid house having babies until I’m killed from it!” she mourned.

She shoved aside her journal and laid down on her bed. Tears streaming her face.

“It’s what you deserve…Lottie. A life like that! But now, we need to think of what we can do and not what we can’t do,” you suggested.

You paused, thinking for a second. You leaned closer as she turned away. A gentle hand on her side.

“Sir Sharpe…you’ve met him, haven’t you? What is he like?” you asked.

“He talks about his stupid inventions all day,” she muttered from her side. “And he won’t answer anything about what his dead sister was like or what was in that old mansion.”

There were only three things you knew about Sir Sharpe as of this morning. He was a baronet. He grew up in a mansion called Allerdale Hall. He lost an older sister. But that was it. Now thanks to Lottie, the sum rallied up to four.

You leaned closer, more mischief in your voice. You hushed to a whisper.

“What does he even look like? Perhaps he’s at least handsome! Maybe at least…on your wedding night…”

Lottie turned over, wrinkling her nose.

“I’m sorry, YN, but he’s ugly! He has a big forehead, and big ears, and a big old nose!” she cried. Her voice far too loud for the question you asked.

She grabbed her pillow and hugged it around her.

“Don’t get me started on my marital duties. I could retch at the thought of it. If Sir Sharpe even thinks of going to bed with me, I’ll box his big ears off!” she decalred.

Part of you couldn’t help but laugh a little. Even Lottie’s own pretty, pink mouth was curved up in a small smile at her own words.

“Practice on that pillow!” you dared.

She hit the pillow again and again.

“This I’ll give Sir Sharpe and -this! I’ll give Sir Sharpe!”

She reached over and got her parasol and gave it a few more good whacks. Feathers were starting to burst out from it and litter the floor.

“Heavens, at this rate you’d have killed him!” you commented.

“He would have earned it!” she replied.

‘“Then you’ll be a criminal and I’d have to bail you out of prison!” you replied.

“Oh no! Then I guess we must be outlaws and run off and live like Robin Hood and the rest! Better than listening to Mrs. Mean drone on about governesses!”

Both of you burst into laughter. The Means lived up to their name and every reception they found a new group of people to complain about. You both heard it all and had to silently look at each other to promise to only laugh at them when it was done.

You both laughed, smilng bright. How you missed the easy days of your younger years. You could play about and get in and out of trouble. You and your sister knew where to strike to hurt each other, but couldn’t live without the other. You fought as intensely as you played. You did everything side by side. You took her hand and hugged her again, even though she was still sniffling.

Lottie sagged her shoulders. Her hold on the pillow loosening.

“But…I’m unhappy. I wake up every day with this and I’m miserable. Like I can’t get out.” she sighed.

“Think of this….” you reasoned. “I hear husbands are easier to manage and persuade then fathers! Once you have money and you’re not under their thumb, you can go about as you want and do what you want! Idon’t think Sir Sharpe would stop you….”

You paused. A horrified shiver ran through you.

“Not that I…know much about him. Do you think he….did he ever…ever…hurt you?” you asked.

She shook her head.

“No, he hasn’t been less than gentlemanly. And he wouldn’t hurt me in any way after we’re married, I’m sure.” she replied.

You both sat on the bed and held hands.

“Then don’t be afraid, Lottie…maybe marriage isn’t a prison, but your key to freedom! Once you’re a married woman, you can do whatever you want and Sir Sharpe won’t stop you. And if he does anything, tell me. And I’ll box his ears!” you replied.

Lottie’s tears were drying in trails down her cheeks. Yet she smiled in spite of herself. Then you hugged one last time.

“I should ring for some cakes and mint tea from Anne! That will cheer you up!” you said.

As you rang the bell for them. Anne, one of your maids, hurried up. She took the order and promptly left. She returned with a tray in only ten minutes. You both relaxed on chairs as the tray balanced on a mahogany table.

Turning, you saw Lottie write about in her journal.

“Oh, croissants! My favorites,” Lottie cooed. She picked up one and began to dig in.

“I’m just glad you have thing that make you happy…I just want you to be happy, Lottie,” you said.

The pastry returned to her plate.

“And…YN…”

Her mouth opened as if to speak. Then she stopped. She reached over and held your cheek. Studying you carefully, as if you were a piece of art. A work she could only admire in person once before she had to leave. Something she had to commit to memory. There was a sad smile on her face.

There was a sad smile on her face.

“I want you to be happy too…”

She kissed your forehead and you smiled. As she helped herself to a big slice of strawberry cake. Her eyes were tired, crinkly.

“I think Lady Charlotte Sharpe has a ring to it. Like the heroine of a book!” you said.

Charlotte turned to face the window. The sun melting down and the sky promising night.

“But this isn’t a book, this is reality…” she responded.

She looked at you and then at the ring on her finger. The engagement ring already commissioned. Costly and pretty, but useless and ominous on Lottie’s hand.

“I think you would have liked him...” she said.

“Sir Sharpe will be nice to have as a brother,” you replied.

She looked at you. But said nothing as she nibbled on her croissant. As the tray was partially emptied, you excused yourself. But Lottie caught your arm. You saw her lip quiver. She leaned closer, her voice quiet. And Lottie was not a person who liked to be quiet.

“I’ll always remember that your words. That we must do what we can and not dwell on what we can’t. Thank you, Y/N. Thank you for the tea, too.”

By dinner time, she was quiet. She dressed nicely and ate modestly. Then went to bed without a word to you. As you went back up to change for bed. How unlike her! Your sister was chattiest at night! But you but shrugged it off. She was probably just exhausted. London’s balls lasted from night until six in the morning and you would be lying if you said they didn’t take a toll on you too. And you would need some rest if there were to be callers, a garden party, and maybe a horse ride in the park the next day.

❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖ ❁

When you awoke the next morning, the sunlight streamed like melten butter into your room. Outside, it was another lovely day in May. People were already tittering about the Ascot opening later this month.

Your maid helped you into your day outfit of a white lace skirt and a blue skirt with flowers patterned with silk. You only hoped Lottie had improved. Before breakfast, you would check.

You knocked on her door.

“Lottie! Good morning!”

No reply.

“The chef is making us bacon! It’s going to be delicious!”

No response.

You beat your fists against the door.

Nothing. And she was a light sleeper.

“Lottie?” you called out louder.

You realized the door was unlocked and opened easily.

She was gone. Servants followed you inside. Her bed wasn’t made, there was no sign of her.

“Is she in the garden? Is she riding in Hyde park this early? ” you asked Anne. But the maid shook her head.

Then, to your shock, you saw there was a piece of paper on it. And a ring. Coming closer, you saw it was her engagement ring.

You felt the world pause as you read her handwriting.

“Hello everyone,

You need not fear, for I am not hurt or seduced by some scoundrel.

I cannot be Sir Sharpe’s wife.

I love all of you. But I cannot do this. This is not what I want for my life.

I shall be safe, do not worry.

But do not try to reach me for some time.

All of my love.

Charlotte Y/L/N.”

Breath knocked out of you. You stood frozen. You hardly heard your parents rushing in. You didn’t feel your father snatching the letter from your hands. Looking down, they were still in the air and shaking.

Your mother began to sob.

All of your plans were canceled. A private detective was hired and Charlotte’s lady’s maid was fired for permitting this. Though the sobbing maid insisted she didn’t know where Charlotte went. All day long, people scurried about in a panic.

You felt tears well up in your own eyes. Alone in your room, it was your turn to burst into crying. It was already as if your dear sister was already dead.

You recalled the letter said she was unharmed. She wasn’t about to be left pregnant with some scoundrel’s bastard. She hadn’t…taken her own life and for her to return only as a corpse. As far as you knew, no news meant she was alive and safe. That would have destroyed you. Taking hope in that, you went back to put on a brave face to your family.

There was the odd caller in the afternoon. But their noses were upturned. Knowing they would report anything and everything. The slight smiles on their faces as they looked about made you want to scream.

Why didn’t Charlotte think about this? The next day, your grief boiled to a silent rage. By running off and vanishing, it meant there was a scandal. And now society would all turn their faces away from you. They would frown and whisper and gossip. The unvirtuous daughter who ran off. And no one would want to go to your parties or dinners. No one would want to see you or associate with you. And no man would ever want to marry you, knowing you were the sister of the runaway spinster of a disgraced family.

That last part pained you. Not that you knew from Charlotte there was shame in being a spinster. But…you hoped to fall in love. Not just to marry a man of stability, to meet a wonderful, nice man who made your heart patter fast. To be kissed and receive valentines and dance and have him drop to his knees, begging for you. Just like in the fictional books you loved.

But the days dragged by. The detective returned after a week and shook his head. And the hope for anything good in your future seemed more and more like a fiction itself.

❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖ ❁

You paced about in the gardens one afternoon. It was better to do something with your anxious energy. Two weeks and no sign where Lottie vanished. You sat by, hoping the coolness of the breeze drifting through flowers would calm you. But not even the loveliness of an English June could distract you.

Anne stepped forward and curtsied.

“Pardon me, Miss. But your father wants to have a word with you in private,” she announced.

She led you up, taking you to Papa’s study. It was a room in dark green, his favorite color. A few books lined up the walls and his desk was placed behind the window. Your father was staring outside when he turned around as you were brought in.

“Ah, sit down, my dear,” he requested.

You obeyed. Sitting on the wooden chair before his desk. Your father brought out a decanter of brandy and poured himself some in a little glass. You noticed it was a generous amount. Not that you would blame him.

He poured himself a second glass and offered it to you.

“I have some news with you, Y/N…” he began.

“Have they found her?” you asked with hope.

“No. And that is exactly why I have to tell you this…”

If there was no update, then what could it be? You wondered. You took the cup and held it in your hands. A little hesitant to drink it yet since it was still so bright in the day. It didn’t feel right to drink such a spirit so early to you. Something was brewing- you just had to let him say it.

“The engagement between your sister and Sir Sharpe it was…it is still and shall be beneficial. To us and to the Baronet. We must be respected by all sorts of society through connection to the baronacy. He needed the money- his own little toys wouldn’t be enough to sustain a gentleman’s life. And with Charlotte’s disappearance- you understand why we don’t have as many visitors as we do?”

“It’s a scandal, papa, I know.” you replied.

“But…we must return to society. We cannot show up defeated. We cannot let them beat us. We cannot become a laughingstock or a figure of pity.”

Where was he going with this? You held your tongue and folded your hands. The drink carefully balanced over your lap. He was only repeating everything you already knew.

“There is one way out that solves all our problems. Especially if at this point, Charlotte isn’t to be found…”

“We can’t give up on finding her, on making sure she is safe!” you insisted.

“We have more immediate matters..” he continued.

You raised the glass to your lips, taking only a sip. It burned down your throat onto your churning stomach. Your father looked directly into your eyes.

“ I have one daughter left who is out. But YN, I don’t think there are many gentleman who will want to associate with a ruined family. No gentleman will consider you marriage…But…”

“But?” you prompted.

“But there is one gentleman who doesn’t think so…” he continued.

“Who?” you asked. You put both hands over your cup.

Papa looked directly into your eyes.

“Sir Sharpe.”

Your throat tightened. Part of your vision went dizzy. You began to piece together where this was leading. Nausea gripped your insides as your hold on the glass turned into a grip.

“He knows he needs our money and to be back into society. We still need the respect of his title…and we have a daughter left who must be taken care of…”

You found yourself hyperventilating. Words choked out of you.

“Am I…am I…”

“YN, you are going to marry Sir Sharpe in your sister’s place this coming month.” he announced flatly.

A sound came out of you. You put a hand over your mouth. You now knew what Lottie felt. Your whole body went tight. You had to catch your breath. How glad you were to be sitting, for your legs were already shaking bad and your vision was spinning. You looked down at the floor, trying to pull yourself together. Your father kept talking.

“Now, I know this isn’t pleasant. Especially for a romantic such as yourself. I know you have yet to be formally introduced to him. But, Y/N, my dear- we have to be practical about these matters. There is no respectable solution to this problem at this point, if Charlotte is to not return.”

He was right. As twisted as this was, was there another option?

Who would want to associate with a family who couldn’t keep an eye on their eldest? Who would want to invite a family who let their daughter run away to their breakfast party? Who would want to court the sister of the woman who ran off from her own marriage? Who would want to marry the daughter of disgraced family?

The more you thought about it, the more you realized there were few options. You were now too socially stained to marry anyone. Your days would be spent alone. Sitting in your house as others lived their lives happy and free, laughing at you behind closed doors.

Your family had no other options out.

A marriage to a man who belonged to a knighted family would earn you respect. It would be telling society that at least one man from a respectable house saw worth in you. You would still go to events not as a figure of pity and ridicule, but as one of them- even ranking above them.

You didn’t want to be a figure of ridicule. Someone who everyone would smugly turn. Whispering to each other “how glad I am that I’m not her!”

You had to marry. And marry well.

You would never be proposed to at this point. There would be no courtship. No dances. No poetry. No marriage proposals. No valentines. No love letters. No Passion. No balls. No laughter.

But there was never going to be a proposal like this.

No future. No safety. Nothing if you denied your father or refused him or rebelled as Lottie did.

You would just be tied and tethered to a ruined family all of your days. But becoming Lady Sharpe would free you from that. You could start anew. Spring again like a wild tiger breaking out of its cage to bear her claws.

And this was your only chance.

“Yes, papa. It will be an honor.” you replied. You would do your duty, as all daughters must.

Father walked out from behind, abandoning his drink. He put a hand on your shoulder and then pulled you for a hug.

“There’s my brave girl,” he said.

He released the hug.

“Alright, Sir Sharpe is going to visit at dinner tomorrow. And my associates at work will be there too, to celebrate. That way, you will have a formal introdution and you won’t be walking down the aisle to a complete stranger.”

You felt your fists grab your skirt. With your free hand, you grabbed your cup of brandy and downed it in one gulp. The burning ran through your body, and you prayed it would calm your racing mind.

“Do I need to wear my nicest dress?” you asked. You at least didn’t want Sir Sharpe to think he was settling from the society beauty. Downgraded from the Wild Rose to her frump sister.

“Considering he has already said yes to this arrangement, I doubt wearing your ugliest dress will do anything to about the matter,” replied your father.

❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖ ❁

Anne dressed you in a cream dinner dress of country silk and velvet. Your sleeves puffed like clouds. there was lace as a “belt” around your waist. The bottom showed an underskirt that was a color between light brown and pink. Anne had hair like yours, and knew how to style it as you liked. Your dress almost white in the light. Already you were going to meet Thomas looking like a bride.

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed seven o clock. You thought you would sweat through your dress. Part of you was tempted to lock the door and not step a foot out the whole night. But you knew you could not delay the meeting anymore. At this rate, you would just meet him on your wedding day. You just had to get it over with.

Besides, you were going to spend the rest of your life with him until only death or divorce did you part. You were just holding back the inevitable.

“You look beautiful, miss,” she gushed as she looked at you.

“I wish I was as pretty as Lottie, sometimes. Or as brave as her…” you lamented quietly.

“Don’t compare yourself to her, miss. You know she has her own sufferings. And it will only make you more unhappy.” Anne advised, giving you a pearl necklace. She attached it to you from behind.

Both of you looked at your reflection in the mirror. Anne leaned in closer with an encouraging smile. “Just think of all this like armor to a battle, Miss Y/N. You can’t give up the fight, yet.”

I can be brave, like Lottie. I can fight, like she can. You thought. How could you be as stupid as to forget your own advice to her not long ago? You would do your best to find the way to make it a good situation. Manipulate your position and standing to your favor, even. For that was what women always did. For being the “weaker sex”, they always found a way through to survive. So what made you think you would just cry and pity yourself all of your days?

You reminded yourself of this. Still you felt heart racing hard as if the gallows was what awaited you next month and not the altar. Holding your head high, like a queen in her palace, you walked out of your room and downstairs.

A few women had shown up in the foyer. They eyed you greedily but you would not give them a figure to be pitied. You kept a stoic face as they offered a few tepid congratulations. But you felt so buzzed with anxiety, you only half heard.

“We’re so happy you found a husband,” said one.

Husband- husband! A husband! A fiancee! How was it that it happened already? And with no romantic proposal in a moonlit garden away from a ball. Just in an office that smelled of whiskey with your father relaying that you were now engaged. And your husband- no, you weren’t married yet, no need to panic now. Though you saw no men around, you knew that your fiancee was under this roof.

You didn’t feel ready. You felt like you were just an adolescent playing dress up and not a grown adult.

“Ah! There you are, YN!” your father greeted as he walked over, dressed in his evening tuxedo. He offered his arm.

“He’s in the library, sharing a drink with the other men. I think it’s time I introduce you both,” he announced.

Swallowing, you took his arm. The one thing keeping you afloat in the ocean of turmoil raging inside you.

Papa walked you over to the library. Your heart picked up as if you were running. In just a few short seconds, you would see the man you were bound to for the rest of your life. Your mind was itself running at a hundred miles a second and you felt yourself shaking like a leaf.

Father turned to the door and your fears screamed inside of you.

You dreaded what your sister said. Her voice ringing in your ears bemoaning Thomas’s apparent ugliness.

“He has a big forehead and big ears and a big old nose!”

He was ugly. You had to settle for that. But what made you were frightened was that perhaps he was a bad person. Perhaps he would hurt you, betray you, break you even.

Wait…didn’t Lottie say herself he wouldn’t treat her in that way? But…you weren’t Lottie! He could act completely differently…

No…you were forming an entire judgement on someone you hadn’t even met!

But, even if he wasn’t handsome…perhaps he would be a nice man. Men didn’t have to be handsome to be good. They could be kind, respectful, patient, gentle, genuinely kind husbands.

So which one was he? A kind, pure soul? Or an irredeemale monster?

Both? In between? Neither? There was only one way to find out. And the answer was standing with the other men beyond that wall.

You took in a deep breath, your father opened the door.

The dark green, musty library already smelled of cigars. Lottie would have loved it. There was a bit of laughter, as their smoke floated to the air. Cups of whiskey was passed and there was talk of this and that issue in Parliment. So many men in black suits like a horde clamored around, as if each one was copied from the other.

Your father cleared his throat.

“Gentlemen, may I introduce to you my daughter, Miss Y/L/N.”

Once, it was Lottie who was “Miss Y/L/N” and you just went by Miss and your first name after. But now that she was gone, you were promoted up. You were Miss Y/L/N and the family’s fortune and future were already on you like a yoke you had to drag across the field.

“It appears that for one of you, you are about to be a very lucky man next month…” your father continued.

One by ones, heads turned to see you. Some in curiosity. Some in boredom. Some in hunger seeing your neckline. You were already making guesses as to who your fiancee was with each passing face. Already one man had a curled mustache. Another had grey hair with busy sideburns. Another round spectacles and short brown hair with a mousy face. Most of them were wrinkled, lined with grey, with a gruffness to their demenaer.

“Sir Sharpe,” your father announced, turning his head.

Your eyes followed at once. That is him- you thought. That is him! That is him, that is him, thatishimthatishimthatishim-

An old man patted a hand on the shoulder of another. The younger had hair had longer, dark curls He was so deep in conversation with someone that he almost forgot. The grandfather nudged him. The younger figure paused.

“Thomas! I believe your lady is here.”

Then he turned around.

Thomas Sharpe was the handsomest man you had ever seen.

The breath you had was knocked out again as you took him in. What on earth was Lottie thinking? Looking at him, you began to question her taste and strength of vision.

Thomas was a tall man with a hair full of raven curls. Slender, but not thin for he had a broad chest. Soft blue eyes that only contrasted with his dark hair and a face the color of porcelain. You now understood the fairy tale of Snow White and why she was the fairest in all the land. For the male equivalent was here before you. He had high cheekbones and large hands. He looked like the hero of a Bronte novel, but one if the author confirmed his handsomeness rather than his ugliness.

He looked into your eyes and he smiled at you. Butterflies fluttered around your stomach and you could feel your eyes widening.

Your father gestured at him and he walked over.

“Sir Sharpe, this is my daughter.Your fiancee.” your father announced.

“Miss, I am glad to finally be acquainted with you. You look beautiful, tonight,” Sir Sharpe greeted.

He raised your hand to his lips and looked right into your eyes as kissed your hand. A gasp could not even escape your throat. Something was stirring beneath you when his lips touched your gloved hand. You felt a sensation you dared not name in the most private part of you.

Finally, steeling yourself back to the earth, you remembered basic etiquette.

“Thank you, Sir Sharpe. I am glad to make your acquaintance as well,” you replied with a curtsy.

Sir Sharpe sat across from you at dinner. You hardly said a word unless someone asked you something.

You couldn’t believe this. You couldn’t believe him. You somehow found your appetite again and ate. But you felt self conscious with each bite. Thomas was watching you- what was he seeing? Would he judge you? You moved even more carefully and properly as you could.

Every time your eyes met, Every time he looked at you, a heat rushed through your whole body and your eyes would return demurely back to your plate or the napkin on your lap. When he smiled at you, you felt as if you could die. You had to remember your feet was touching the ground as you wiggled your toes in your pointed shoes..

He spoke poliely when asked to, but mainly listened. There was polite talk about the weather or the Ascot opening race. Thomas would ask you about what you thought and you found your replies were timid. You didn’t want to make a wrong move, you didn’t want him to hate you, you didn’t want-

Then your father stood up, raising a glass.

“Now, everyone,” he declared. “Let us have a toast. To Sir Sharpe, the delightful Baronet who I have the honor to call my son in law not long from now. And to the marriage of my beloved, dutiful daughter-”

You found yourself looking down. Dutiful, dutiful. This was why you were here. Lottie was not dutiful and broke everything. But now here you were to fix it all. For everyone’s sakes, including yours. It would have be you thrown to face the unknown of marriage to this unknown aristocrat. Yes, he was handsome. But he was still a stranger.

“Cheers!” toasted your father.

Everyone replied with cheers as they clinked glasses. Thomas gave you another smile and clinked yours. You felt yourself become timid. His looks, his smiles, and you were acting no better than an loony adolescent.

Thomas delayed going to after-dinner sips of brandy with the other men. He remained in the parlor with the women sipping on coffee and went to you. He led you over to a corner away from nosy mamas. He spoke lowly, for you to hear.

“How are you, Miss Y/L/N?” he asked.

“If I must be entirely honest, I am afraid,” you confessed.

His eyes softened at you. They were the color of a spring sky. You had never seen eyes as blue as his.

“YN, I know this is sudden. And I’m shocked as you are. But…”

He offered his hand and you took it. Your glove over his skin. Then he placed his other over yours, and already you found yourself chilled comparing his large hand to your own. To feeling that one bit of touch. For now you were almost married, and to touch was permitted.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me…I will try to make you happy, with everything I can.” he promised.

“Nothing will happen to me. You won’t hurt me. And you won’t let anyone hurt me, will you?” you asked.

A shadow of sadness passed over his face.

“No. I won’t.”

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